Blood Pact

perform.

    "What did I tell you." Relief made Celluci's own fingers tremble as he tied off the thick bandage and held a sleeve up in each hand. "We'll use these as a sling, to immobilize it, but you're going to Emergency as soon as we get out of here." Vicki bowed her head as he knotted the cuffs at the back of her neck and he rested his cheek for a moment against her hair, much as she'd done earlier with Henry, who still reclined against the support of her good arm. "I thought . . ." He'd thought she was going to die when he'd kicked the teeth away from her throat. He'd thought she was suicidal when she'd presented herself again. And when it had actually worked, he'd thought . . . he'd thought . . . He didn't know what he thought anymore. "I thought it was all over," he finished lamely and sat back on his heels. And if she asks me what I meant by all, I don't know what to tell her.

    Then his eyes widened, and he snickered.

    Henry looked startled and pulled himself up into a shaky but nearly erect sitting position.

    Vicki's brows snapped down. "What the hell are you laughing at?" she demanded.

    Celluci waved a hand at the two of them and snickered again. "Just for a minute there I was reminded of Michelangelo's Pieta.
    You know, the statue of the Madonna holding the body of Christ across her lap?”

    "And you think me an inappropriate Christ?" Henry asked.

    Celluci took a good long look at the other man, at the bruising, at the horror that still lurked around hazel eyes, at the mixture of physical youth and spiritual age, at the nearly visible sense of self now firmly back in place, and shook his head. "Actually," he said,
    "as Christs go, I've seen worse. But the Madonna . . .” The snicker returned at Vicki's indignant stare. "But the Madonna has definitely been miscast.”

    Vicki's lips twitched. "You rotten bastard," she began. Then she lost it and howled with laughter.

    Which pushed Celluci over the edge.

    Henry hesitated, nerves scraped raw and unsure if he should be finding insult when Vicki didn't or blasphemy where none was intended, although honesty forced him to admit that Celluci had a valid point. Unable to withstand the purge of emotion, he joined in.

    If some of the laughter had a slightly hysterical tone, they all agreed to ignore it.

    "Hey, Fergusson! What are you doing back here, man?"

    "Forgot something." Detective Fergusson picked a long narrow paper bag up off his desk and pulled a bottle of bubble bath shaped like a ninja turtle out far enough for the other man to identify it. "My daughter sent me back for it. Informed me on her way to bed that broken promises make blisters.”

    "How old is she now, four? Five?”

    "Five.”

    Detective Brunswick shook his head. "Five years old and she's already got you asking how high on the way up. Man, when she becomes a teenager, she's going to run you ragged.”

    Fergusson snorted, cramming bag and bottle into his coat pocket. "By that time maybe her mother'll be slowing down." He leaned over and squinted at the piece of pink message paper topping a stack of reports like a square of icing. "What the hell's this?”

    "Just some drunk calling you to confess.”

    "Confess to what?”

    "The sinking of the Lusitania? The shooting of JFK? Repatriating the constitution? I don't know. She didn't want to confess to me.”

    "Geez, why do I always get them?”

    Brunswick grinned and snapped his gun. "Because you're such a sweetie.”

    "Fuck you, too," Fergusson muttered absently, reading the actual message. "Director of Life Sciences? . . .”

    "She seemed to think I should know who she was. In fact, she told me that everyone knew who she was.” He watched the other man's face for a moment and his grin faded. "You don't think there's actually anything in this, do you?”

    "I don't know." He crumpled the paper and stuffed it in the pocket with his daughter's bubble bath, his expression resembling that of a hound worrying at a bone. "Maybe." Then he shrugged and sighed. "Maybe not.”

    "You haven't even begun to convince me that we shouldn't haul ass out of here right now," Celluci growled. "You," he jabbed a finger at Henry, "are operating on half a tank. And you," the finger moved to wave in front of Vicki's nose, "are about three pints short.”

    "Not that much," Vicki protested, although from the way she felt, she wasn't going to bet on it.

    Celluci ignored her. "We all look like we've been through the wars. Let's just clear out of here